Children of Death
by Kefalion
Summary: Tom Riddle is the son of Thanatos, and he does not get along with his father, which leads to him losing his powers as a demigod, and doing whatever he can's to take it back. Demigod!AU


This story was written for the **Eleventh Round **of the Seventh Season of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I'm writing as **Chaser 2 **for **The Tutshill Tornados**.

The Name of the Round: Love Them or Hate Them

We're writing clichés - tropes.

CHASER 2: A character loses their powers (super-hero!AU, god/demi-god!AU, some sort of spell/curse, anything goes)

These are the prompts I'm using as a chaser to score some extra points:

8\. (color) emerald green  
14\. (emotion) anger  
15\. (emotion) jealousy

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any part of the world J.K. Rowling has created. It's all hers, from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts to all the people living there.

Thanks for betaing

WARNING/info: Demi-god!AU. Death and deaths.

* * *

**Children of Death  
**_Words: 1 016_

* * *

Tom seethes. He can't make it happen. Death does not fly on swift wings at his command. His will, which used to send swaths of green light at his victims, stealing the breath from their lungs and dulling their eyes produces nothing more than sparks. Tiny glittering fragments of emerald hang inertly in the air. He strikes out at them, and they burn his skin. He winces, pulling his hand back. As he watches angry red burns grow on the back of his hand, burning, aching.

He's done it. The bastard has done what he's threatened to do, had taken away Tom's birthright. _Damn you, Father, _he thinks_. No, not Father anymore if I've been disowned. Damn you, Thanatos._

With a swallowed growl and a seething glare at the man he'd come to kill who is decidedly _not dead_, Tom turns on his heal and splashes down the dark, rain-wet street. There has been a change of plans, a change in target for his ire. He doesn't know the name of his target. He doesn't know if his target is a boy or a girl. All he knows is when his target was born—today, at the end of July—and that his target will have power over death as a child of Thanatos, the god of death.

—

Though Tom was _dead_ set on finding his target that very same night as his powers were stolen from him, it's not so easily done. Information takes time to gather, and the family is well protected. Thanatos' work, no doubt. It takes him over a year of tireless searching to find them. A year filled with bursts where he threatens and kills, not as refined as before—but he can still kill using the means of mortal men, and he can still strike fear into the hearts of his enemies, and intimidate his allies into doing what they're told—and eventually, his persistence bears fruit.

On the night of Halloween, the day his powers used to be the strongest, he goes to the village where his target lives with his young mother and father. The Potter family is at home. They're visible as silhouettes behind the curtains. He has a gun in hand, sneering at the thought of needing it. He shouldn't need it. After tonight, he won't need it. Everything will return to how it's supposed to be.

He is dressed all in black, invisible—or close to it—as long as he stays out of the cones of yellow light spewed by the lampposts. His shoes are silent on the pavement. It has been swept off the autumn leaves leaving nothing to crunch beneath his soles. The gate in the white picket fence creaks as he opens it, and the pathway is gravel. There's no hiding his arrival. Stealth discarded, Tom rings the doorbell, playing into what is normal.

James Potter opens the door, and Tom puts a bullet through his skull. Lily Potter screams. She runs. Tom steps over the body of her husband, following her into the living room. She's pulling open the back door, disappearing through it, a bundle clutched to her chest. He runs too, stands in the open door, takes aim. The shot hits, and she falls, dropping the bundle. A baby cries, wild, scared, and hurt.

Tom saunters to it leisurely, drinking in the anguish, the sound of his victory. Little Harry Potter lies on his side in the grass, pink mouth open in a wretched wail. Tom stands over Harry for a moment, looking at the weak, pathetic creature that's usurped him, who has Thanatos's favour.

"Goodbye, little brother." His finger lies securely on the trigger of the pistol. He squeezes slowly, steadily. He'll do it right the first time.

He can't pull it.

His finger won't move. With a roar, he tosses the pistol away and pulls out a knife. He puts it to Harry's forehead, straining to cut. All he can manage is a fine, jagged line. He drops the knife too and closes his hands around the tiny warm neck of the child. It should be so easy to squeeze, to strangle the life out of it, but he can't. He can no more move his fingers now than when he wanted to pull the trigger of his gun. He lets go and sits on his knees, head hanging low.

His father has predicted what he'd do. He'd taken precautions. Of course, he had—wily, old bastard.

"Is this all I'm worth?" he asks the god, conjuring the emerald sparks that used to be the sign of his heritage, his power, and his might. "You left me a trick so I wouldn't forget, is that so?" The sparks rain down on baby Harry, and they do not have the decency to burn him. They flutter against his smooth skin, before sinking inside and travelling to his eyes, setting them aglow. They burn emerald green, the colour of death. There's a lot of power hidden in this tiny child. This tiny child who has the audacity to stop crying and start giggling.

Tom is helpless to it. He bursts out laughing. It's loud and hysterical and fills him from his toes up, bubbling out in toxic bursts. What other extraordinary powers has the little brat been given? Can he do more than Tom could, do more than kill with his will? Can he wrap himself in their father's shroud of invisibility? Can he bring back shades of the dead? Can he enter any battlefield and walk out the other side undefeated? Has he been granted the esteemed title of Master of Death from infancy? How far will Thanatos go to mock him? How far will the punishment for his perceived hubris stretch?

He will not stand for it. He will not be bested. He'll have his due, and he'll use his brother to get it. That power will be his one way or another. The loyalty between caretaker and child can grow strong. Strong enough to produce ill will towards their common sire, and delivered this way, revenge will be all that much sweeter.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

**A/N 7th September 2019:**

Hope you liked the story.


End file.
